


Echoes of Luke 10:34

by ChummyGeekery



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Aziraphale's a little confused but he got the spirit, Berkeley Square isn't actually right in front of the Ritz, Crowley Has Chronic Pain (Good Omens), Crowley has Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome, Dining at the Ritz (Good Omens), Ehlers-Danlos syndrome, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Just a literary allusion thing, Kissing, Love Confessions, M/M, Queerplatonic Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Snogging, Soft Crowley (Good Omens), Strong Aziraphale (Good Omens), Title's not really a religious thing, and I have been informed they don't have balconies, as Crowley would say: Why not, so the Ineffables manifested the balcony and the view out of their own expectations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-15
Updated: 2020-06-24
Packaged: 2020-12-17 00:31:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21045344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChummyGeekery/pseuds/ChummyGeekery
Summary: These days, the humans are calling it "Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome." Crowley just thinks of it as the way his body's been ever since the Fall. He's never really had to talk about it- until now.Inspired by a tumblr post from mywingsareonwheels, and comments on a separate post from fatbottomedboi.





	1. Innuendo

“To the world,” said Crowley, the only being who could truly understand just what the world meant to Aziraphale. His voice hitched with emotion, which Aziraphale found quite touching.

“To the world,” he replied softly. They chimed their glasses.

They had averted Armageddon, thwarted their respective head offices, and their most treasured possessions were pleasantly unsinged. The world was their oyster. (They’d just ordered oysters, too.) But there was something about this perfect Sunday afternoon- the sheer, fresh, openness of it all- that made Aziraphale nervous. What _would_ they do next?

What were they even doing now? Generally when Aziraphale and Crowley met, they were trading favors, solving problems, or at least having some pretense of an argument. _We’re on opposite sides,_ Aziraphale had reminded them both, oh, how many thousands of times? But now they weren’t. Now they were just two morally ambiguous principalities, toasting the world, enjoying each other’s company.

When the conversation stalled, Crowley raised his glass again and said: “To my car.” Much to Aziraphale’s relief. He soon followed up with a toast of his own: “To A.Z. Fell & Company.” As the oysters arrived, they finished off the champagne with “To Agnes Nutter!”

After that, they talked- and laughed- easily about their highly eventful weekend. “Did you see Shadwell defending his dear Madam Tracy?” Aziraphale asked.

“Who? Ah, yes! The ‘whore of Babylon,’ he called her?” Crowley grinned.

(An elderly couple at the next table overheard and tsk-tsk’d.)

Aziraphale straightened in his chair. “You watch. That just might become a pet name between them. I do believe they may actually be in love.”

“_Angel._ You always think humans are in love! It’s annoying, honestly. Almost as annoying as how often you’re right.”

“I’ve always found the capacity for love, in all its forms, to be one of humanity’s more… endearing characteristics,” Aziraphale admitted. “D- don’t you?”

“Don’t I what?”

“Well. Deep down, don’t you think it’s n-“ _Not “nice,”_ Aziraphale chided himself. _He hates that word._ “Don’t you think there’s something… wonderfully human about… falling in love?”

Crowley slumped a bit further in his chair, planting his chin in his palm, facing Aziraphale with a blank look on his face. Well, _most_ of his face. He could be staring at Aziraphale with deep longing in his eyes, for all the angel knew. Those infernal dark glasses made it impossible to tell. 

Aziraphale wished he had the nerve to tell Crowley to take the glasses off. Or to ask him: _Since we’re on Earth’s side now- ‘gone native’, so to speak- do you think it might be possible for us? To fall in love? I mean. Strictly hypothetically speaking, of course…_

Crowley cleared his throat. The waiter came to take their dessert orders: a blissful distraction. The demon also ordered them a bottle of wine.

“Something to wash down the crepes, eh angel?” he teased.

That got them laughing over Paris again. Their mirth was fueled by alcohol, and steered by avoidance of awkward topics. Aziraphale miracled their voices down a few decibels. Still, other diners turned and stared; the pair was growing far too sloppy for the pre-theater hour.

Their desserts arrived, along with a bottle of Pinot. Crowley sniffed the first pour. “Mm! Good stuff!” he declared. “Erm, what’s it called again?”

The sommelier pursed his lips in irritation. “Stargazer, sir.”

“Stargazer! Right. Knew I ordered something with a clever name. Keep it coming, please. _There_ we go. To Alpha Centauri!” he practically shouted.

Aziraphale began planning how they’d get out of here with their dignity intact. At least one of them would sober up when no one was looking, and then-

Oh, _no._

He’d left the Bentley at Crowley’s flat!

He couldn’t imagine Crowley walking and taking public transit now. Not even sober. Aziraphale had been in that body just a few hours ago, and it was in shambles.

The jaw, ribcage, and even the pelvis were all off-kilter. One would expect Crowley’s knees to be a bit sore, after he’d dropped to them yesterday when his Bentley blew up. But it was worse than that; they were stiff, and badly bruised. The ankles, shoulders and elbows all seemed to flop about willy-nilly. It was worse when he took off Crowley’s tight boots and jacket back at his flat. 

_Does he choose this sort of wardrobe for its bracing effects?_ Aziraphale had wondered. _That might explain these ridiculous tight trousers…_

There was a dearth of good breakfast foods in Crowley’s flat, and his body didn’t seem to have much of an appetite anyway. Aziraphale had just a pear and a cup of tea before setting off for his showdown with hell. It had been a glorious morning; and frankly, Aziraphale was too scared to try driving the Bentley. So he decided to walk and take the bus to St. James’s Park. He had hoped a little light exercise would help Crowley’s body. And perhaps it did, in some ways. But not all.

The pear didn’t digest well; it even gave him a touch of heartburn. The hips didn’t like the hard bus seats. Some of the muscles seized up, and Aziraphale found himself _limping_ off the bus. Small miracles and gentle stretches got him walking straight by the time he reached the duck pond. But his gait still didn’t look or feel ‘normal.’ The feet shuffled close to the ground, with most of the body’s weight on the inner soles. The knees, hips and shoulders constantly swayed to counterbalance each other, creating a kind of jaunty swagger despite the low profile of the feet.

He’d seen this walk many times over the centuries. Secretly, he was quite fond of it- as an outside observer. But now that he knew how it felt…

“I was thinking,” Crowley drawled loudly. “Why do we always go back to yours? Let’s go back to mine this time. I can introduce you to the plants!”

People were glancing over from other tables. There was a whisper of ‘weed.’ Aziraphale frowned.

“Are you… sure that you’re up to it?”

Crowley arched his left eyebrow. “_Up_ to it? What exactly are you _implying_, angel?”

“I only meant the walk! I left the Bentley at your flat!” Aziraphale protested louder than he meant to, drawing more stares.

“And why wouldn’t I be _up to_ a walk?” Crowley asked icily.

“Oh, come off it! I was inside you this morning! I _know_-“

The maître d’ cleared her throat, startling the two principalities. (They hadn’t realized she was standing by their table.) “Gentlemen. I’m afraid I must ask you to take this conversation elsewhere.”

“Oh. Right.” Aziraphale looked vaguely into the middle distance. An outside observer might think he was in shock from the embarrassment of it all. In truth, he was working a miracle on the Ritz’s bookings for that evening.

Crowley attempted to sober up. But that particular miracle required tensing the shoulders and jaw. He hardly got three drops back into the glass before he winced and had to stop. He snarled, pushed back his chair, and began to march out.

“_I mutht athk you to take thith converthation eltheWHERE,_” he mocked beneath his breath.

Then he tripped over the music room threshold and crashed to the floor.


	2. Save Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you Good Omens fandom for the warm welcome! Especially the hurt-comfort fans and my fellow spoonies. <3

“My dear boy!” Aziraphale gasped as he kneeled beside Crowley.

“Ngk,” Crowley replied, biting back on the pain so hard that his jaw popped.

“What on Earth did you do?”

“Sprained it. Bad,” Crowley croaked.

He pointed to his left ankle. Aziraphale hovered his hands over it, preparing to miracle away the injury.

“That won’t work,” Crowley told him.

“What do you _mean_ it won’t-“

“Is he alright?” the maître d’ asked anxiously. “Should we fetch a wheelchair? Or I can ring urgent care-“

“_No,_” Crowley growled. “’S fine. Happens all the time.”

Aziraphale gently squeezed his hand. For a moment Crowley forgot to breathe.

“Perhaps it’s best if I just help him up to our room,” said Aziraphale, giving the maître d’ a most reassuring smile. He wiggled a hotel keycard between his fingers, like a magician with his ace of spades. Crowley rolled his eyes. _Of course_ he’d miracle them a reservation. Showoff.

Aziraphale helped Crowley up, gently guiding the demon’s left arm over his shoulders. Together they hobbled out of the restaurant on three legs. There were murmurs of sympathy from the other diners; Crowley kept silencing them with scowls. He’d much preferred the tsk-tsking a few moments earlier.

Despite Crowley’s orders, there was a wheelchair awaiting them in the hotel lobby. One of those clunky, hospital-issue contraptions, with the worse-than-useless footrests and the uncomfortable, slumping pleather seat. Crowley sneered at it. He’d bet that one of the little front wheels steered off-course, like on those shopping trolleys he altered to tempt humans into wrath.

“I could spruce it up,” Aziraphale offered.

“No. Don’t be frivolousss,” he whispered.

It was something of a code word between them, ‘frivolous.’ Aziraphale’s eyes widened in understanding. _Don’t rouse the humans’ suspicions. Or worse- Gabriel’s._ They made their way to the lift without further discussion. Any humans who might have been headed for the lift were deterred by a hostile aura surrounding the skinny, dark-clad man keeping weight off his left foot.

Crowley disentangled himself from Aziraphale and slumped against the lift wall. The angel faced him with his hands on his hips. Once the doors closed, he demanded, “Why won’t you let me heal you?”

“’S not that I won’t _let_ you. I just know that it won’t work!”

But Aziraphale wasn’t listening. He crouched down, waving those soft, gentle hands of his over Crowley’s ankle. Crowley winced, caught between frustration, gratitude, and the strain of keeping upright on just one leg.

“I’ve been dealing with this for six millennia, Angel. Anything to do with this corporeal form being… wobbly… has to be healed the human way. The slow way.”

Aziraphale looked up at him, his brow furrowed. “Surely that’s not the case. This was an angel’s body once-“

“Yeah. And then it _fell,_” Crowley said pointedly. “Every demon’s got something wrong wiv ‘em. S’pose I got off easy.” He gritted his teeth again. His right hip and knee were crying out from the strain. His head was starting to spin. “Have- have you _seen_ Hastur? And Ligur had a raging case of…”

The beleaguered muscles of his right leg gave way. Crowley began to fall- right as Aziraphale stood to catch him. Secretly, Crowley had always liked how sturdy Aziraphale was. His corporeal form made no secret of the great pleasure he took in food. But beneath the softness, he had the body of a celestial warrior- in perfect health, impervious to age and attrition.

Point being, Aziraphale was strong. Strong enough to scoop Crowley up into his arms. Crowley did not resist. Instead he closed his eyes and let himself relax against the angel.

“There must be something that we can do,” Aziraphale murmured. The lift reached their floor. He gently maneuvered them both out into the corridor.

“There is. Cold packs. Ibuprofen. Lidocaine. Bed.”

“But that can’t be all,” he fretted. “I mean, surely… Have you tried any miracles on the ligaments? Or simply willing your joints to stay put?”

“’Course I bloody have,” Crowley snapped. “What else d’you suggest I try? Yoga? Kale?”

It was a running joke on the chronic pain forums that Crowley browsed on his bad days. (The sort of days when he asked God questions, started drinking before noon, and let Aziraphale’s calls go to voicemail.) The world was filled with meddling aunties and know-it-all coworkers who felt the need to ask chronic pain sufferers such inane questions as, _Have you tried yoga? Or what about kale smoothies?_ As if they knew more about treating such problems than the people who lived with them every day.

Crowley now understood precisely how annoying that was.

Aziraphale was quiet as he carried Crowley down the corridor. Apparently their room was at the far end from the lift. Crowley would have teased him for the oversight, if he had the energy. He so enjoyed teasing the angel. The way Aziraphale got flustered, huffed and looked away. And how he always gave in to the temptation to look back again…

They passed a gaggle of youths in absurdly overpriced jeans and hoodies. The kids looked up from their phones to see a man in a suit carrying another man over the threshold of a hotel room. They pointed, giggled, and vocalized to the tune of “Here Comes the Bride”: 

_“Ba dum ba-daaa…”_

But Crowley sensed no malice from them. In fact, he opened his eyes just in time to see two of the girls smile meaningfully at each other and link arms. Aziraphale, for his part, blushed and thanked them like a proud and smitten groom:

“Oh! Why thank you. That’s very kind…”

Crowley snorted a laugh. As the door closed behind them, he remarked, “One of your better works, I think.”

“What do you mean?”

“You know. Same-sex marriage. All those countries, nudging ‘em into it.”

Aziraphale pinked even further. “I didn’t think you liked that sort of thing. _Love,_ and all of that.”

“Well- No. But… pissed off all the worst people,” Crowley covered lamely.

The hotel room was sumptuous, with plush carpets, a fireplace, ten-foot ceilings and a small chandelier. There was an antique hardwood writing desk, with a real Tiffany lamp and a cushioned rococo chair. Silk-lined window treatments dressed French doors to a private balcony, where the late-summer splendor of Berkeley Square was on full display.

But at that moment, all Crowley cared about was the king-size bed.

Aziraphale eased Crowley down onto his back. The muscles of his shoulders, back and hips slowly unclenched. It was agony before it was relief; he gritted his teeth and hissed his way through the pain. Stars danced in his vision, but beyond them he saw Aziraphale staring down at him. The angel had never looked him in the eye for such a long stretch before. Or with such softness in his gaze.

“I’ll call room service for first aid supplies,” he said. “Unless… I could just…?”

“No,” Crowley sighed. “No frivolous miracles.”

Technically, principalities don’t need to sleep. But Crowley had cultivated the skill anyway; it came in handy at times like this. While Aziraphale figured out the workings of the hotel room telephone, Crowley placed his sunglasses on the nightstand, closed his eyes, and let himself slip under.

Perhaps it was a dream. But he thought he heard the angel murmur: “There’s nothing _frivolous_ about caring for you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I know "Here Comes the Bride" is inaccurate to their current gender presentations. But the other instantly-recognizable wedding song in the Western world- Mendelssohn's "Wedding March"- is a little tougher for the kids to scat to (and the readers to hear in their head.) "Here Comes the Bride" is just more _fun_.


	3. The Miracle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Free crepes to whoever spots the Broadchurch reference. ;-)

Crowley had said “no frivolous miracles,” so Aziraphale refrained from materializing first aid supplies out of thin air. But when an angel feels compassion, it overflows into their surroundings, stirring hearts and quietly altering circumstances. Small and subtle miracles come as naturally as breathing. As a manner of speaking.

When Aziraphale called room service, the receptionist happened to be returning from a lovely tea break. She’d just been told she’d won Employee of the Month and a £100 gift card for ‘going above and beyond in service to our guests’. She had texted her wife the good news, and her wife had texted back:

**OMG babe u earned it u r SO NICE at work. <3 <3 <3 At Tesco round the corner from u. Gettin wine to celebrate lol. Need anything?**

Before the receptionist could reply, a call came in from Room 67. It was an exceedingly pleasant gentleman who, much to her delight, set her gaydar on a four-bell alarm. He inquired after amenities to ease his “companion’s” twisted ankle, sore back, and indigestion.

Twenty minutes later, there was a quiet knock on Aziraphale and Crowley’s door. A smiling young woman with a shock of purple hair handed Aziraphale a Tesco bag, exchanged pleasantries and left.

Like a craftsman setting out his tools, Aziraphale laid out the bag’s contents in a neat line on the bedspread. Three wrap bandages. A box of instant cold packs. A bottle of Motrin. A tube of something called “Aspercreme.” A bottle of antacids. And a Get Well Soon card with cartoon ducks on the cover.

He didn’t quite know where to start. He considered asking Crowley, but decided against it. Crowley had nodded off. Or he might be pretending, to avoid talking about what had happened. Either way, it seemed best to give him some peace.

Perhaps he should start with the sprained ankle. Aziraphale perched on the edge of the bed near Crowley’s feet. He gently loosened the laces on Crowley’s left boot- only to watch the foot swell to take up the space. He instinctively hovered his hands over the injury again. No miracle occurred. His ethereal senses told him there was nothing here to heal. It was as if the universe was saying, _This body is precisely the way it should be._

A few days ago, Aziraphale would have taken this in stride. _Crowley is fallen, after all._ But now, he glanced heavenward, sighed, and silently asked, _Why?_

He’d unlaced the boot down to the last few eyelets before it was finally loose. He eased Crowley’s foot free as gently as he could. The demon stirred.

“Angel? Y’know what you’re doing?”

“Not really,” he confessed.

Crowley fumbled a hand over the supplies and landed on the cold packs. He held them up, read the brand name, rolled his eyes.

“These’re cheap-o’s; they don’t last long. We’ll save ‘em all for the ankle.”

He tried to open the box, but his fingers were curled and uncooperative. The base of his thumb looked swollen.

Aziraphale took the box from him. “Allow me.”

“Yeah, okay. Take just one of ‘em out. Now squeeze all up and down it.”

Aziraphale obeyed. “It feels like it’s breaking.”

“’s supposed to. On the inside. Is it getting cold?”

“Oh it is! How ingenious.”

“Basic chemistry, angel,” said the demon, a faint smile belying his admiration of human inventions. (Even the cheap-o’s.) He gestured towards his ankle. “Put it there.”

“Shouldn’t we elevate the injured area?”

“Sure, if you like,” he drawled.

Aziraphale propped a spare pillow beneath Crowley’s foot. The knee should have held straight, about an inch or so above the bedspread; instead, it bent slightly backwards. Aziraphale’s eyes widened as he removed the pillow. Crowley didn’t seem to notice.

“Fetch me a blanket, would you? I chill easily, ‘specially when I’m injured.”

“I noticed,” Aziraphale muttered. “Are you-?”

“Cold-blooded? No, don’t be daft. It’s just part of the condition.”

Aziraphale stood primly. “I was _going_ to ask if you’re in much pain.”

“…Oh.”

Crowley squinted up at Aziraphale. There was nothing accusing in his gaze: only confusion and hurt. As if the angel’s simple question had no simple answer. As if his concern was a direct beam of sunshine: warm and cleansing, but just too much to take in.

Aziraphale cleared his throat and busied himself with the linen closet. He found an extra blanket and wrapped it over Crowley’s shoulders. Then he elevated the ankle again, taking care to support Crowley’s entire leg on a ramp of linens. Aziraphale moved slowly, deliberate and tender. Not because he still thought his touch could heal Crowley- but because he knew it couldn’t.

Despite his great care, Crowley’s hip popped loudly while the angel was moving his leg. Aziraphale gasped in horror. Crowley just closed his eyes and nestled a bit deeper into the bed, almost smiling.

“_Much_ better! Thanks, angel; I needed that.”

“Good Lord,” the angel breathed.

“’S not always this bad,” Crowley reassured him. “This body’s been thrown to the ground, what, five times in the last two days?”

“You can’t count your ‘moment’ with the Bentley. You dropped to your knees entirely of your own volition then,” Aziraphale pointed out. Crowley blew a raspberry. Both beings chuckled. They were back on more familiar footing.

“Here,” said Crowley. He handed Aziraphale the Aspercreme. “This is numbing stuff. Could you do my knees? You- you just rub it on, it’s great. Great stuff. _Miraculous,_ really.”

(It may help to remember at this point that Crowley had never miracled the four champagne flutes and one glass of pinot noir out of his system.)

Aziraphale carefully worked the right leg of Crowley’s trousers up above his knee, then worked the sock down. Crowley’s shin was spattered with bruises; most were new, but not all. As Aziraphale applied the cream, he noticed that the kneecap moved easily within its socket. (Once again, Crowley was alarmingly unconcerned.) He noticed other things, too. Crowley’s skin was soft as velvet, and pulled easily beneath Aziraphale’s fingers, even where it should have been tight along the shin. His veins showed through the unbruised areas like a roadmap.

But there was no evidence that he’d driven through a wall of fire yesterday: not so much as a singed hair. He healed miraculously from some things. Just nothing ‘to do with being wobbly,’ as he’d said in the lift.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Aziraphale asked.

“Tell you what?” Crowley replied languidly.

“You said you’ve been dealing with this from the beginning. You called it a _condition._”

“It’s not a condition,” the demon grumbled. “Well. It’s _like_ a condition some humans have. They’re calling it EDS these days. For most of history they called it ‘Johnny’s proper useless on the farm, always fallin’ down hurtin’ himself; let’s sell him to the circus as a contortionist.’”

Aziraphale swallowed hard. He pulled Crowley’s right sock and trouser leg back into place, and moved on to the left. With a mighty grimace, Crowley managed to prop himself up on his elbows. He stared at Aziraphale. The angel snuck bashful looks away and back again, at a loss for words; it was his turn to feel caught in bright sunshine.

“Don’t you dare feel sorry for me,” Crowley ordered. “I manage fine. We’ve both lived in leisure most centuries.”

“Well. Not in sixth century Wessex,” Aziraphale noted.

As he uncovered Crowley’s left knee, he imagined this slender, fragile leg being knocked about inside a suit of armor. Then it occurred to him:

“The Arrangement?”

“Was a massive help,” Crowley agreed. “Gave me time to recuperate, when I needed it. And a lot less horseback riding. That’s hell on loose hips, you know.”

Aziraphale nodded meekly. He was silently chastising himself. He should have seen it, should have known…

“You didn’t even ask to toss a coin for nanny-versus-gardener,” Crowley mused. “Just gave me the job with more influence- and less physical labor- no questions asked.”

Aziraphale finished with Crowley’s other knee, and gingerly pulled the fabric back into place. He helped Crowley back down off his elbows, adjusted the blanket over his bony shoulders. Crowley tried and failed to grasp the blanket himself. If anything, his hands were getting stiffer. Aziraphale decided they should be the next recipients of the earthly miracle of Aspercreme.

He pulled up a chair by the head of the bed. Crowley flopped his head sideways on the pillow, regarding his angel with steady, guileless golden eyes.

“Know why I never told you, Angel?” He smiled sadly. “‘Cos I thought, on some level, that you already knew.”

“Crowley…”

Aziraphale reached out for Crowley’s hand. Crowley took his angel’s hand in his own, brought it to his lips, and kissed it.


	4. Lost Opportunity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter took longer than the others. Life was too crazy for writing for a little while. On Halloween I went to a karaoke party, (dressed as Crowley, obvs,) sang "I Want To Break Free," stepped down off the stage... and fractured my ankle.
> 
> You cannot make this shit up.

He just looked so _distraught._ Guilty, even. Crowley couldn’t stand to see Aziraphale look at him that way. But it’d be hard to explain things, even at the best of times. Right now, injured and exhausted and more than a bit drunk, Crowley knew he’d never find the right words. 

Best not to use words at all, really.

He wasn’t expecting Aziraphale to kiss him back. More than once. First on Crowley’s aching fingers; then the back of his wrist; then starting up his arm…

Crowley closed his eyes and smiled. Sheer bliss thrummed and sparkled through his mind, like galaxies swirling into being. Was this really happening? Was Aziraphale really _doing_ this?

The angel kept one hand gently around Crowley’s; he popped his shirtsleeve buttons with the other. Black silk fell away to reveal more velvet-soft skin. Aziraphale kept climbing Crowley’s arm with gentle kisses.

Crowley knew what Aziraphale’s lips felt like. They used to kiss in greeting, centuries ago, when that sort of thing was common between male friends. Not that they could _admit_ they were friends. Just ‘keeping up appearances’ in front of the humans, you know.

But feeling Aziraphale’s lips again was like discovering them anew. So soft and full, firm yet gentle…

This was really happening.

Where did Aziraphale even learn to _do_ this? Weren’t kisses up the arm the signature move of some cartoon character? Crowley chuckled at the thought. But before he could recall which cartoon character, the kisses stopped.

Bless it, he should have known it was too good to be true…

He opened his eyes. The chair was empty. His heart sank.

The bed dipped on Crowley’s other side as Aziraphale sat on the bedspread. Crowley blinked in surprise; he’d never seen Aziraphale move so fast before.

The angel leaned over Crowley, gently cupping a hand around his jaw. “Is this alright?”

“Ng. Yeah.” _More than alright,_ Crowley thought, his heart pounding. _Much more._

“Are you sure?” Aziraphale’s voice was husky with concern. “You _are_ injured…”

Crowley had waited for this moment for literal ages. He wasn’t going to let a few bumps and bruises get in the way. He reached up and pulled Aziraphale down to him.

Aziraphale’s kisses tasted like champagne and powdered sugar. Crowley held back at first, self-conscious of his flitting tongue. But when he let it slip a little, Aziraphale moaned as if he’d just bitten into the perfect brioche. Crowley’s tongue roamed freely after that.

(Gomez Addams! _That’s_ who did kisses up the arm!)

Crowley’s hands roamed as well. But the blessed things were getting stiffer and sorer by the minute, a delayed reaction from breaking his fall. He tried and failed to unbutton Aziraphale’s waistcoat. Aziraphale noticed the demon’s attempts to undress him, and he was clearly pleased. He chuckled, low and warm. Then he sat back, unbuttoned the waistcoat himself, and tossed it onto the carpet.

They both laughed- then found that they actually needed to catch their breath. Desire had tethered them closer than usual to their physiologies. Crowley could smell Aziraphale starting to sweat through his fine cologne. A heady musk mixed with the angel’s usual sandalwood, lavender and gardenia. Crowley reveled in it.

Aziraphale smiled down at him. The angel had many smiles; Crowley knew each one so well, he could probably sketch them from memory. There was the nervous smile he gave his celestial superiors; the longsuffering smile reserved for bookshop patrons; the smug smile; the contented smile…

Right now the angel regarded Crowley with his warmest, most tender smile. The one with the crow’s feet; the soft, relaxed brow; the steady, blue-green gaze. But there was a spark of something new in his eyes. Something mischievous. He raised his eyebrows. Then he _licked his lips._

Crowley grinned and pulled him back down.

He had no plan. There was no space in his tired, sozzled mind for anything beyond the thrill of the present moment. He was wrapped up in all the pleasurable sensations that came from being so very close to Aziraphale. And from kissing him, over and over and over. And over and over.

In fact, Crowley was happy _not_ to take the lead for once. He was always talking Aziraphale into things. Persuading him. Cajoling him. _Tempting_ him. Aziraphale would fuss and fret about “sides” and “if someone finds out.” But he usually gave in eventually- which gave Crowley cause to hope. If the angel ever gave up on this “sides” nonsense, then maybe, just maybe, he’d go a bit faster? Take the initiative more than once a century?

Though in all of Crowley’s hoping, he’d never imagined something quite like this.

He’d always thought snogging looked terribly awkward. Lots of heavy breathing, too many noses in too small a space. Now he realized it could be quite nice, once you got the hang of it. And if you had the right partner, of course.

He liked feeling Aziraphale’s breath tickle his upper lip. He liked reaching out and touching all the things that made Aziraphale… well, _Aziraphale._ That silly gold pinky ring; the little dimples where his ears were pierced; the larger dimples on the small of his back; the soft heft of his belly.

He really liked how Aziraphale squeezed his hand whenever Crowley did something weird with his tongue. And he really, _really_ liked feeling the weight and warmth of Aziraphale against him. How every quiet chuckle or pleased moan reverberated through the angel’s ribcage and into Crowley’s own…

But then Crowley’s hip popped.

It wasn’t a pop of relief, of things being put to rights. It was a bad pop, a painful pop; every muscle from his waist to his groin seized up in protest. He hissed with pain. Aziraphale pushed off him, eyes wide.

“Crowley!”

He’d said it in concern and alarm. But Crowley couldn’t help but hear a bit of scolding.

“Oh, I knew that you weren’t up to this,” Aziraphale fussed. “What do we do?”

“Roll me face-down,” Crowley ordered through clenched teeth. “Aspercreme my back.”

Aziraphale slid both hands under Crowley’s left hip and tentatively began to lift him. Crowley’s core muscles were forming a picket line at this point. Or perhaps amassing pitchforks. He hissed harder as dark light flooded his vision.

“Just! Get it! _Over_ with!”

Maybe he blacked out for a few seconds. Or maybe Aziraphale reneged on ‘no frivolous miracles’ and flipped him with a snap of his fingers. Either way, next thing Crowley knew he was face-down in a brocade pillow the size of one of the Bentley’s side windows. His sprained ankle didn’t take kindly to being flexed against the bedspread. He muffled a cry of pain and kicked his injured foot backwards into the air.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale spoke loud and slow, as if Crowley were at the bottom of a well. “I’m going to pull you down the bed. Just far enough so that your feet can hang off at ninety-degree angles. Do you think that would help?”

“Y-yeah,” Crowley grimaced. He hated how pathetic he sounded, panting and whimpering into the pillow. He hated the tinge of panic beneath Aziraphale’s careful enunciation. He hated that he was powerless to change either of these things- to bridge the sudden distance between them.

“One, two, three!” Aziraphale counted off, quite uselessly. He pulled Crowley down the bed by his calves. Crowley hoped things might pop back into place, but no luck. His shirt rode up; at least Aziraphale would have easy access for the Aspercreme. Silver linings.

The muscle spasms began to taper off. He melted into bed with relief- and resignation. He would have to stay here, as still as possible, for quite awhile. And when he finally dared to move, he’d have to be very careful not to set it all off again. He knew the blasted drill.

He felt the first dollop of lidocaine cream on his back. Cold and numb. That was what he needed now.

Cold and numb.

Was that what he deserved?

Cold and numb.

Was that the best he could hope for?

He wiggled his fingers, remembering the feeling of Aziraphale’s plump, warm hand laced in his own.

“Oh you poor thing,” Aziraphale tut-tutted. “Does your hand still hurt?”

“_No,_” he snapped.

Hot and squirming. Anger and shame knotted his stomach, set fire to his cheeks and collarbones. Why was he angry with Aziraphale? After all, the angel was only trying to _help._ Crowley should be grateful that he was still here. Still touching him, even. But it was nothing like the way they’d touched mere moments before. That wonderful… whatever it was… it was all over now.

Figures. As soon as the bureaucracies were out of the picture, Crowley’s own body found a way to ruin things.

Little voices spoke in Crowley’s mind. The kind of voices that humans mistakenly called ‘inner demons.’ _You always ruin things with Aziraphale,_ they hissed. _One step forward, two steps back. You go too fast. You hatch crazy plans. You ask too much._

_You **are** too much._

Aziraphale had finished. He pulled a blanket over Crowley’s prone form. Warm and soft. He murmured: “Now, my dear: you’ll have a nice sleep, and dream of whatever it is you like best.”

Crowley knew exactly what he’d dream of.

Waking up would hurt.

He buried his face in the pillow. He couldn’t let Aziraphale see the tears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I picked the scents in Aziraphale's cologne based on scents that I like, which go well together; and also a cursory Googling of scent and flower meanings.
> 
> Sandalwood: healing and protection
> 
> Lavender: peace and devotion
> 
> Gardenia: secret love between two people (!!!)


	5. Love of My Life

Usually, Crowley slept in a catlike coil. But now he was laid out so carefully. Feet hanging carefully off the edge of the bed, the left one in a wrap bandage. Hips and shoulders placed in perfect alignment, in hopes that they would ease back into their proper place. Hands at his sides, the fingers curled in like the petals on a dying rose.

From time to time, pain or unconscious worry would work its way across his brow. Otherwise he scarcely moved. In the late twilight of summer, he was almost translucent. For the first time, Aziraphale noticed that the lines on Crowley’s face and neck were lighter, but more plentiful, than on most human bodies of comparable “age.” Blue veins whispered across his temples and neck, rising to varicose heights over the backs of his slender hands.

He looked so fragile.

Aziraphale couldn’t heal him. But there must be some way that he could _help_ him. Or at least prevent further pain.

It wouldn’t do any good to just sit here, fretting and watching him sleep. Aziraphale would only drive himself mad with worry and guilt. He needed to plan. He needed information. But with “frivolous” miracles off the table, and his bookshop many blocks away, he’d need to find another way to investigate this condition called EDS.

He had an idea.

He crept out of the room, careful to close the door quietly behind him. He went down to the hotel lobby and approached the concierge desk.

“Hello. Would you, by any chance, know of any nearby computers open to public use? I need to use a ‘search engine’…”

Aziraphale paused. He remembered the times Crowley had whipped out his cell phone to prove a point in some argument, or to jog their dusty memories on some centuries-old detail.

“I believe the ‘Google’ should suffice?” he asked brightly.

The concierge took Aziraphale to something called the Ritz’s “business center.” It was a room full of computers, with internet access and printers. Using Google turned out to be rather intuitive. No sooner had Aziraphale typed in “EDS,” than Google finished his thought with phrases like “EDS joint pain” and “EDS injuries.” Another two clicks, and he knew what EDS actually stood for.

_Ehlers Danlos Syndrome._

He busied himself printing sources and taking notes. He pulled everything from peer-reviewed articles to patient chat forums. He even found diagrams of something called the “Beighton Scale.” It was supposedly a diagnostic tool, but looked more like warm-up stretches for the Spanish Inquisition.

He learned that Hippocrates was the first to describe the condition, but credit for its discovery typically went to a Messrs. Ehlers and Danlos, two dermatologists working a mere century ago. (Typical.) He learned that there were different subtypes of EDS- some with more alarming symptoms than others. He learned the technical terms for the ailments he’d experienced while in Crowley’s body. Gastroparesis. Dysautonomia. Joint subluxations. Chronic pain.

He Googled “EDS pain how to help.” He printed more resources, and attacked their margins with a complimentary hotel pen. He was urgent in his mission. He had to make up for lost time- for all the centuries that he hadn’t realized something was wrong.

When they’d decided to “choose their faces wisely,” Aziraphale had focused on acting as cool and confident as Crowley. “Fake it ‘til you make it,” as the humans were saying these days. Swagger into Hell. Call your infernal superiors “guys.” Focus not on their evil but on their stupidity. Remind yourself how they never checked up, bought all your past bluffs wholesale, and still used _clipboards._

When the stench of Hell hit Aziraphale like a brick wall, he thought to himself, in Crowley’s voice: _Everything’s going to be just fine._ When the slime molds in the corners showed more life than the spirits shuffling down the corridors, he reminded himself: _They just said ‘get up there and make some trouble.’ …They never check up._

When Beelzebub had a demon destroyed with a casual wave of their hand- not even in punishment, just to literally test the waters- Aziraphale nearly broke. Then Crowley’s voice came to him, like a guardian on his shoulder: _Nobody has to know... They won’t notice a thing, angel._

And it had worked. He- no, _they_\- had bluffed their way through.

But when he nearly popped his knee, just from trying to keep upright on Hell’s slimy floors, Crowley’s voice didn’t come to him. When the attack in St. James Park produced bruises severe enough to lock his elbows, he just couldn’t picture Crowley joking it off. And when his back and hips nearly screamed in relief at the warm bath of holy water? Nothing.

Hell had been terrible- but Aziraphale had expected that. It was the pain that Crowley felt every day on Earth that had truly taken him aback. Because Crowley had never warned him. The wily serpent who rationalized and persuaded, the friend who bantered and reminisced- he’d never said anything about this.

The hotel pen gave up after about a hundred margins. Aziraphale dropped it in the bin and nicked another from beside the printer. He rubbed his temples to clear his head, and jotted:

_Recent falls:  
1\. Bentley “moment”  
2\. Satan  
3\. St. James  
4\. Ritz  
5\. ?_

Didn’t Crowley say his body had been ‘thrown to the ground five times in the last two days’? What was the fifth one? Why couldn’t Aziraphale remember? Was he really such a thoughtless friend?

He flipped back through his printouts and notes on how to help. The list of treatments and devices was split between things Crowley already used, and things Aziraphale could never imagine him trying. Crowley already had a cane, wore compression garments, ate small portions, and knew his way around over-the-counter pain remedies. But surely he wouldn’t go for orthopedic shoes, clunky hand splints, or a wheelchair? And Aziraphale shuddered to think what Crowley, irritable and defensive, might do to a human physiotherapist…

But if Aziraphale couldn’t offer him any new relief, then what good was he?

The warm hues of predawn seeped across the corridor outside the business center. A young man with a briefcase and a Starbucks espresso marched in and threw himself in front of a nearby computer. Aziraphale sighed and despairingly Googled, “How to help a friend in pain.”

Friends. They _were_ friends. Obviously. Aziraphale cringed to think that he’d claimed otherwise just two nights ago. Crowley was the only one who loved the world like he did- as an outsider, yes, but not a detached one. If anything, they were like deep cover agents who’d grown quite fond of the locals.

Crowley was the one who’d always been there to lend a hand, to gently tease him, to make him _think._ If it weren’t for Crowley, Aziraphale would have toed the party line, let Armageddon occur as planned. It seemed so unthinkable now…

Crowley had made Aziraphale a worse angel, but a much better being. He brought out the “bit of a bastard” in Aziraphale, and for that, he was more than a bit good. He understood Aziraphale in ways that even the best and brightest humans never could. He _believed_ in Aziraphale more than heaven ever would.

Crowley loved Aziraphale.

He knew it for certain. After all, angels could sense these things. It had started with a brief glimmer, in a tavern in 41 AD. Aziraphale had made the demon smile after a hellish workday. That smile sparked a little flash of warmth on another plane. An involuntary missive saying, _Boy, am I glad to see you._

As the ages passed, that glimmer grew into a steady light, then an all-encompassing glow. As they somehow both got themselves transferred to London. As they struck up the Arrangement. As they found each other after plagues and witch hunts, fires and bombings. Not to share plans, necessarily- but just to check in. To assure themselves that the other was safe. For _that’s_ when they knew that all would be well.

By the time Crowley rescued Aziraphale’s books from the Blitz, the pleasure of the demon’s company was as cheering, warm, and bright as a bonfire on an autumn night. He could rationalize or deny it all he wanted, but deep down Aziraphale knew. Crowley _loved_ him.

And the feeling was mutual.

How cruel was it, then, that only one of them could sense love on the ethereal plane? That only one of them could be completely certain, without a word? That on top of his physical pain, Crowley should endure the uncertainty of a love unspoken- something Aziraphale had read was _exquisitely_ painful?

Aziraphale Googled, “How to tell my best friend I love him.” He sighed again- louder this time- and put his head in his hands.

“I’ve been there,” said a voice beside him.

Aziraphale looked up. The young man with the espresso had leaned over to read his screen. He smiled gently at the angel.

“You just have to tell him, mate.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello yes my county is on a coronavirus containment lockdown, so I have waaay too much spare time on my hands. Hence reviving this fic. <3


	6. I Was Born to Love You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Love confession revised for more tenderness, 6/27/20. (I was trying not to be too soppy, but overshot the mark on first published draft.) I threw in some reminiscing about the deleted "bookshop opening scene." If, by any chance, you are *not* familiar with that scene, get thee to youtube (or get your mitts on a copy of the script book) because Crowley is adorably devious in it.

Crowley awoke slowly. He felt disjointed- both physically and mentally. He took inventory. Fuzzy head. Tetchy stomach. Had he forgotten to sober up? Slanted, pink sunlight. Was it dawn or dusk? A heavy, dull pain in his left ankle. Sharp little warnings twinging in his back and hips, shoulders and jaw. He was in for a bad pain day. (Or night, if the light outside was dusk.)

Where the heaven was he? This wasn’t his bed, or the bookshop sofa. He pulled himself off a silk brocade pillow and rolled over in segments, grunting and wincing. He was in a high-ceilinged room, subtly rococo, unsubtly posh. When he finally slid over onto his back, he found himself looking up at gilded molding and a chandelier. He squinted, puzzled.

Was he… in a room at the Ritz?

Funny, he’d never slept at the Ritz before. You’d think he would have, sometime in their 112 years in business. He’d dined downstairs dozens of times. Usually with-

_Aziraphale._

The weekend ran through Crowley’s head like a VHS tape on fast-forward. All the way up to the snogging, and then…

_Shit! Shit, shit, shit!_

Panting, he pulled himself up by the bedpost and scanned the room. The angel wasn’t here.

Where had he gone? _Why_ had he gone? Gone and left Crowley sleeping, alone and injured, in an unfamiliar place? Sure, he was probably embarrassed about getting carried away last night. (Crowley certainly was.) But that was no reason to leave Crowley a sitting duck.

_He wouldn’t leave me now,_ Crowley thought. _At least- not of his own volition…_

He stood and tested his left ankle. As long as he didn’t move the joint, the pain was just about tolerable. He hobbled forth, treating his left foot like an inert crutch. It only took a few steps for his knees and hips to start complaining about his un-suave new gait. But he kept moving, hissing through clenched teeth, white-knuckling first the bedposts and then the nearest chair. He couldn’t give up. His mind’s eye was consumed with memories of flame…

He’d nearly reached the suite’s door when it began to open from the other side. He braced himself, determined to at least go down fighting, but then…

“Crowley!” Aziraphale chided. “What in heaven’s name are you doing?”

“What’m-? Wh-? _Me?_ You-! Where have you _been?_”

Crowley slumped against the wall. Aziraphale sidled past him into the suite and placed a stack of printouts on the sideboard. The top page had a diagram of the Beighton Scale.

“You’ve been _reading,_” Crowley accused.

“I didn’t know what else to do!”

“Oh I dunno, ssstand guard, maybe? Not leave me here defenssseless and at the top of both sssides’ defecation rostersss?” Crowley snapped.

His slump began to turn into a downward slide. He didn’t have the strength to push himself upright. Aziraphale ducked beneath his arm, gathered him up, and carried him back across the room. Crowley deflated. All the fight went out of him, leaving him exhausted and embarrassed. Relieved- but still hurt.

“Thought I’d lost you again,” he croaked. “Like when the bookshop burned down… I went in, you know. Looking for you.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale gasped. “Crowley, I’m so sorry…”

The angel stood before the bed and began to lower him down. Crowley pictured himself fighting past the muscle cramps again, struggling to find a decent position. He couldn’t help but whimper.

“My dear?”

“Hurts to lie down,” Crowley confessed.

“Goodness. I should have asked,” Aziraphale fretted. “Would you rather sit up, then?”

“Can’t. Hotel chairs are no good,” said Crowley. _And it’s not like you can carry me in your arms all day. Well- it’s not like you’d want to…_

“How about this?” Aziraphale asked.

He turned around. A wheelchair had appeared out of nowhere. The seat, back and headrest were covered in flat, sturdy foam. It had shocks and an electric motor. The trim was crimson, and the dark grey frame had the matte sheen of titanium alloy. Crowley raised an eyebrow, impressed in spite of himself. This was a personal-use wheelchair- and not the kind you’d get on the NHS.

Aziraphale helped Crowley into the chair. Then he held open the French doors to the balcony. Crowley maneuvered himself outside. The chair moved smooth and easy. Once he found a good spot, he reclined the chair with a flick of a switch. Soon his back and hips were the most relaxed they’d been since he’d gotten out of bed.

_Well done, angel,_ he thought. Usually when Crowley was this badly out of sorts, he’d lie in bed- sleeping or not- until he healed. It could take days- even weeks. But now, with both sides after them, he couldn’t spend days or weeks out of commission. Besides, it was nice to get up and rejoin the land of the awake, without having to support his body weight. Aziraphale may have just erased centuries of demonic apprehension towards wheelchairs- all with one well-timed miracle.

Aziraphale pulled up a wrought iron chair next to Crowley. The demon flopped his head sideways on the headrest. He smiled wanly.

“So. Did you find out what EDS stands for? Besides Evil Demon Snake?”

Aziraphale smiled. It was that adorable, bashful smile of his where he tucked in his chin and looked up at Crowley. “Ehlers Danlos Syndrome. And I am truly sorry for leaving you. I just wanted to understand what you’re going through, without pelting you with questions.”

“Yeah, I know,” said Crowley. “But I told you: you’ve already helped me, without even knowing. And you can always ask me questions. Or at least leave me a note the next time you run off?”

“Oh I will,” Aziraphale said earnestly. “We’re on our own side, now more than ever. I won’t ever leave again without warning you. After all, that’s… that’s not really a nice way to treat someone you love.”

“Okay, okay. You’re _forgiven,_” Crowley teased.

He scanned the view before them with heavy-lidded eyes. The sunrise scaled the buildings east of Berkeley Square, and gold light spilled into the little park. The pretty chaos of birdsong intensified, scarcely dampened by the light, early-morning traffic.

Crowley thought they were basking in comfortable silence, as old friends are wont to do- until he glanced over at Aziraphale. The angel was frowning down at his wringing hands.

“You alright?”

“I love you, Crowley,” Aziraphale blurted.

Crowley gaped momentarily. Sure, now that their occult pink slips had come in, they finally _could_ say it out loud. But he hadn’t expected Aziraphale to be so forward, so soon. If he was honest, he thought that he would beat Aziraphale to the punch.

But he did like how the angel could still surprise him, after all this time. And he _said he loved him,_ that was the important thing. Crowley swallowed his pride and smiled.

“I… I love you too, angel.”

“You don’t seem surprised,” Aziraphale pouted.

“Should I be?”

“Well.” He looked down at his hands again. “I know you can’t sense love.”

“Not like you can,” Crowley admitted. “But there’s sensing things, and there’s _having a sense_ of things. We’ve been flirting with each other, what, since Rome at least? And I’d say we’ve moved well beyond that in the past two centuries or so.”

“Two centuries…” Aziraphale paused. Crowley could see him doing the mental math. “…Are you counting from the Bastille?”

Crowley shrugged. “Bastille works, too. Actually, I was thinking when you opened the bookshop. When I tricked Gabriel into letting you stay on earth. ‘S not just that I didn’t want to deal with Michael… I really would’ve missed you.”

“I would have missed you too.”

Aziraphale smiled, but his hands were still tight, his eyes nervous. Crowley offered a hand towards him, loose and tired. Aziraphale reached out and took it.

“But if you already knew,” said the angel, “then I’ve made a fuss over nothing, haven’t I?”

“No,” Crowley said softly. He ran his thumb along Aziraphale’s hand. “Only if you think _love_ is nothing.”

***

They got moving before they could get too soppy. Crowley popped a few Motrin and retrieved his sunglasses from the bedside table. Aziraphale packed the remaining first aid supplies into a black leather messenger bag that had appeared on the wheelchair’s handlebars.

He went to put the printouts in the bag too, but there wasn’t enough room. Papers spilled over the carpet. Crowley leaned forward and picked one up. He zeroed in on Aziraphale’s handwriting in the margins.

_Recent falls:  
1\. Bentley “moment”  
2\. Satan  
3\. St. James  
4\. Ritz  
5\. ?_

“The bookshop.”

“What about the bookshop?” Aziraphale asked.

“That’s the other time I fell. When I went in looking for you. Fire humans got me with the hose.”

Aziraphale leaned down over Crowley, running his hands gently over the demon’s slender chest. All Crowley had to do was look up, and he caught him in a kiss. It was all so easy now.

“I think we ought to stick together, for awhile,” said Aziraphale. “In case either of our sides comes after us. And- well… I’d rather _like_ to stay with you, even if we didn’t have to.”

“Yeah, I’d like that, too,” said Crowley. He nuzzled Aziraphale’s cheek. “So. Your place or mine? I vote yours. ‘S more fun.”

“I would have to carry you upstairs,” Aziraphale warned.

“Fine by me,” Crowley grinned.

Aziraphale shook his head in mock disapproval. _You shameless serpent, you._ Crowley kissed him again. Just because he could now. After centuries of never saying it, never showing it too directly, perhaps now they could make up for lost time. This could be fun to get used to.

“I love you, angel.”

“I love you too, Crowley.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone for your support along the way! <3 I never expected this short and simple fic to take 8 months to complete, but first my EDS threw a wrench in my life, then Pestilence came out of retirement to throw a wrench in everyone's lives, so...
> 
> Oh well. The story is done now, and I'm quite pleased with it. So that's my little bit of happy to cling to for awhile.


End file.
